


Optimists Always Die First

by insanityscars



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Childhood Memories, Keith (Voltron) Backstory, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Memories, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Sad Keith (Voltron), That's a nice Lance, sorry lance, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanityscars/pseuds/insanityscars
Summary: The optimist is always the first to die. Keith learned that when he was young. And every time he forgets, something comes along to remind him.





	

Keith was four when he first learned that lesson, though his memory is a little vague.

His mother always told him that was how she lost his father. She never gave more detail. For all his life Keith had thought that his father had been the optimist. Now he was not sure. He had never seen his mother as an optimist. All he ever knew was a rush of colour, then a month after he turned four his memories solidified into that little apartment. Just him and his mother. She had worked too hard to be happy, he decided. She was too tired to be an optimist. There were the smiles she threw, the rich laughter she gave, the light-heartedness when she spoke. But she was not an optimist.

By the time he was five, Keith's life had changed. The apartment had become cluttered with books and toys and homeliness, and his mother had a stable job, and Keith had friends. They were happy, and life was good.

His mother had always tried to be a hero. It was natural for her. But she thought she could stop the brawl in the restaurant she served tables at. She didn't realise one of the men had a knife.

_The optimist always dies first._

 

* * *

 

 

Keith relearned his lesson when his third host family took him in.

They brought two children home. He was seven, the younger was five. The family already had an eight year old girl. For the first time in a long time, Keith had a family. He was happy. He played with toys and read children's books and snuck sweets with his 'brother' and 'sister' when his 'parents' were sleeping. He was living as he should, though he never forgot his mother. His real mother. The house was big, but he shared a room with the younger boy. Keith didn't mind. Keith went to school. He had friends. He was doing well in class. He was happy.

Keith lasted a year with the family. They remembered his birthday, they celebrated New Years with him, they took him trick-or-treating despite never having done so before. Then Keith's 'mother' lost her job. Keith never knew women got blindly drunk. Keith never knew women could be abusive.

Bruised and battered he was sent back to that dull place with all the other orphans. The younger did not come with him. One rarely survives a punctured lung.

_The optimist always dies first._

 

* * *

 

 

Keith never liked the ocean much.

He didn't see it until he was twelve. He had never really been given a good description, either, and from what he'd heard, the ocean was a vast pool that covered the world and towered over your head. It was a drop off, the waves would rock you madly and toss you under, the sand would suck you down. Surfers and divers and fishermen were lost to the sea, boats were dragged to the ocean floor, bodies were never recovered. When his seventh family took him to the ocean he thought they were mad. They thought he was crazy for never having gone before. It was a large family, all of them trying to coax him into the waves. When he finally relented he found it was actually quite pleasant.

No one ever told Keith about rips. They turned their backs for one moment and suddenly he couldn't touch the bottom. His 'sister' swam out after him but the tide was turning and the waves were growing. He made it back to shore. She didn't.

They told Keith it wasn't his fault, but he knew it was. And they knew it, too. Like clockwork he was sent away.

_The optimist always dies first._

 

* * *

 

 

Keith was fifteen when he was accepted into the Galaxy Garrison.

He was a rare case, staying in the dorms year round, no family to go back to. He didn't make friends because lives were fragile and he'd learned that the hard way. He got into fights because people were stupid, stupid, stupid, and it wasn't his fault everyone he knew was gone, and how dare they speak about those lives like they meant nothing! He topped all his classes because better people hate him, hate him for showing off and being cold and reserved than they become his friends. He did so well that the Garrison gave him a mentor. Takashi Shirogane. And no matter how hard he wanted to hate the man, no matter how much he tried to become distant and separate, 'Shiro' still wormed his way through Keith's defences and the pair grew closer, more like brothers than friends.

Keith had been at the launch, had waved Shiro off on his way to Kerberos. He wasn't at the ship's return. There was no return. Keith flew into a rage, not caring who his fists hit, just caring that other people felt his pain, his loss. Shiro was gone. The Garrison expelled him. He didn't give them a chance to send him back to the orphanage. He just ran.

_The optimist always dies first._

 

* * *

 

 

Keith stared down at the bloodied helmet.

He could barely tell that it had once been blue. He could still see the boy who'd worn it, could still hear his laugh, could still feel his hands, how they shook, how the blood made them slick and slippery, but Keith wouldn't let him go, not now, not ever. Lance. Lance, who had stormed into the escape pod after him, had carried Shiro by Keith's side. Lance, who had joked and teased when they passed through the wormhole, had lightened the mood in the unfamiliar world. Lance, who had cried when he thought no one saw him, who preferred homesickness to forgetting.

_Lance?_

Keith remembered watching him go down. The way the blast had sent him flying. The blast that looked like a glancing blow, that had knocked him to the ground. Keith could hear his heavy breathing from across the room. He had survived worse, he would be fine. But he wasn't getting up, and oh, God, was that blood?

_Lance!_

The robot was in pieces before Keith could blink, and it took him a minute to realise that he had been the one to destroy it, that his sword had been what slashed it to ribbons. Then he was crouching beside Lance, and Lance had dragged himself upright against rubble, and his hands were pressed to his side. His whole body shaking, Keith reached out to pry Lance's hands away, to reveal the ripped armour and torn flesh. The twisted metal that was embedded in his stomach, the scorch mark from the plasma blast.

_Hold on, Lance, you'll be okay._

Keith had been hesitant. Stuck in a castle with six other people left little room for solitude, and forming Voltron meant they had to bond, had to grow close and become friends. Keith had tried to keep away as long as possible. He did the minimum, spent all his free time training, rolled his eyes and shouted curses and snapped his voice when anyone tried to get close.

_Heh. . .you're a terrible liar, you know?_

But then there was Lance. Lance, who never seemed to run out of jokes, never turned a blind eye to someone in need, never allowed the others to suffer alone. He was always there, always trying to help Keith despite his insistence that he didn't need help. He was never dull. And for the first time in a long, long time, Keith forgot—let himself forget—that optimism only got people killed. He let himself grow close, and he let himself worry. He let himself be human.

_Just keep pressure on the wound and shut up._

There were moments where Keith wondered if Lance were even human. Not only did he have an endlessly positive attitude and an apparently never-ending supply of lame jokes, but he just never died. He threw himself over Coran and took the full force of a small explosion, but despite being his with shrapnel, suffering presumed internal bleeding and being thrown about like a ragdoll he managed to survive long enough to be put in a healing pod. After they'd been thrown through the corrupted wormhole he'd returned to the ship with an infected gash running from his knee to his ankle, severe blood poisoning and a major concussion, but he'd passed it off as a scratch and a bump to the head. And then there was that time only a week or so prior, when Keith was sure he'd heard bones breaking, but Lance had shot him a double thumbs up and was walking just fine.

_Ow, ow, ow, Keith, stop, stop!_

Keith had found security in the fact that Lance was indestructible, in the knowledge that nothing that knocked him about could keep him down for long. He learned Lance, learned how he reacted to different injuries. He milked the pain of a papercut, lapping up the attention his whining brought him, but when he really was bleeding out, or he broke a bone, or he knew he was heading into a dangerous place he cracked jokes, eased the tension. That was Lance, through and through. His whining, his jokes, that was a security. He was an optimist, and Keith never even realised.

_No, I'm not just going to leave you here to die, you idiot._

Keith knew something was wrong when Lance didn't laugh.

_Hey, hey, hey, Keith, Keith look at me._

He knew Lance was dying. For real, this time.

_Lance, what is it?_

A tear hit the helmet, exposing a patch of blue and making the still-wet blood run. Keith pulled the helmet closer to him. There was already so much blood on his armour it didn't make a difference. Keith curled up around the helmet, his whole body shaking, and let out a hideous, animalistic sound.

_I love you, Keith, so, so much._

Keith had been stupid. So, so stupid. Stupid and reckless and irresponsible and _human_.

_I —I love you too, Lance._

And it hurt.

_Lance?_

And now. . .

_Lance!_

The optimist always dies first.


End file.
